


The Boxer

by Zoeleo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Cameos, Homophobic Language, M/M, Not Incest, Older Man/Younger Man, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rating May Change, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24226228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: The Barker gang is dead, there are riots in Harlem, Babe Ruth has played his final game,  James J. Braddock has just won the heavyweight boxing championship of the world at Madison Square Gardens... And in Gotham, Bruce Wayne's ward has returned. Only Dick Grayson would find a comic strip hero like Dick Tracy to be a perfectly acceptable inspiration for a real life career. Bruce is less than thrilled than his choice and finds himself being reluctantly drawn after him into a world of mobsters, drug running, and underground boxing. In particular he's intrigued by an upcoming young athlete off the streets with a troubled past and great potential for the future.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44





	The Boxer

**Author's Note:**

> I told Nykyrianne that I would be good and not post this until I had the entire thing written... But apparently feedback is more integral to my motivation and writing process than I had anticipated. 
> 
> Honestly at this point I think I'm just experimenting shipping Jason every possible way - I've got an idea for a JayDick fic waiting in the wings as well. Good lord what am I doing? Love you all. Hope you enjoy.

_I am just a poor boy_   
_Though my story's seldom told_   
_I have squandered my resistance_   
_For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises_   
_All lies and jests_   
_Still a man hears what he wants to hear_   
_And disregards the rest_

***

Bruce is not used to pushing his way through a crowd. Usually it parts for Gotham’s wealthiest man like the Red Sea scrolling back for Moses. Out on the fringe of the city however, surrounded by dockworkers and longshoremen whose calloused hands have never opened a society paper in their lives, he’s forced to use his height and breadth to forge through the throng. The potent scent of fish and sweat as he shoulders through the press of unwashed bodies causes him wrinkle his nose. He gets a fair share of snide looks in return, but the money stitched into every seam of his double breasted pin-striped suit warns them off acting on their displeasure.

He can’t hear the creak of ships or even the screech of gulls over the hubbub, but the mix of smoke stacks and freighter cranes rising above the crowd beckons him to the waterfront. At long last reaches the nucleus of the fray: a square space roped off between loading docks. It’s just wide enough for the salt breeze to find its way to him. Bruce breathes deeply and plants himself next to one of the posts.

Inside the makeshift ring two men circle each other. They are shirtless, their bodies exemplary displays of health and vigor. Both are obvious athletes, but it’s an unbalanced match. One man has at least thirty pounds and several inches on the other. His arms and shoulders are roped with heavy muscle, and the crouch of his fighting stance pulls the fabric of his trousers taut over thick thighs. White teeth flash in his dirty face and Bruce reads his lips as he taunts his smaller opponent.

_"Pretty boy."_

Bruce rolls his eyes. The comment goads the smaller fighter into action, as was no doubt intended. He flies across the packed dirt of the ring, landing a flurry of hard jabs, then darts away again before the taller fighter can retaliate. The crowd roars with laughter. The tall fighter wipes blood from his lip and tosses a middle finger up them in return.

The embarrassment of being bloodied by such a smaller opponent would draw a prouder man into a series of increasingly frustrated and sloppy moves, but not this one. The tall fighter's expression changes, eyes narrowing and grin thinning out as he backsteps to gain space and reevaluate. He's clearly not one of the thick-headed troglodytes Bruce typically associates with working class brawlers. Bruce leans forward in interest, tipping the brim of his hat back to watch the tall fighter more keenly.

It is difficult to guess hiss age under the grime and smattering of scars. Gotham is a harsh city, aging people beyond their years, but Bruce thinks he may be about Dick’s age. Possibly younger. He also thinks the ‘pretty boy’ catcall was a shade hypocritical. High cheekbones, dark curling hair, full lips and startling blue-green eyes make for an attractive countenance that only leans towards the more rugged side of handsome because of the imperfections that have been beaten into it: a crooked nose and uneven jaw.

He taps the elbow of a man next to him and indicates the tall fighter with the same two fingers. “Who is that?”

The man side-eyes him distractedly, barking “Baby Face Jay,” before turning his attention back to the match. 

Bruce snorts. “Baby Face” Jay and his opponent have gone back to circling each other. Jay is clearly reluctant to be stung by the smaller fighter a second time, and the audience is growing restless at the lack of action. Jay’s eyes flit toward a group of men on the opposite side of the ring from Bruce. Better dressed than the rabble around them, they appear to be the epicenter of the ebb and flow of money passing hands as spectators place their bets. The corners of Jay’s mouth abruptly turn down. He curls his shoulders, lowers his head, and steps back into the fight.

He leads in with a feint, faking a jab and his opponent extends his hand to block it, creating an opening for Jay to follow with a hard cross. It’s a good move. His reach is longer than the smaller fighter’s and the sheer power in his swing would be enough to lay the man out if it connects solidly. Bruce inhales sharply. The smaller fighter barely dodges in time, spine curving back in a show of incredible flexibility as Baby Face’s fist whistles overhead. Jay tries again, this time lifting his right arm as if going for another cross, but instead aims a fast jab to the gut. It grazes the smaller fighter, but the wily man still manages to dance away before it can do much damage. Jay’s brow pinches and he leans forward. His lips move conspiratorially and Bruce reads them once more, studying the way they purse and stretch in earnest.

_“You’re better than I am_.”

The smaller fighter acknowledges the concession with a laugh and tosses back a headful of glossy black hair. He’s facing away from Bruce, so Bruce can only guess how he replies, but it must be amiable as Jay’s bearing eases into something more relaxed. When they re-engage, it’s almost playful. The two men weave around each other trading hits, but Bruce’s trained eye catches on to the artifice. Their hands are curled loosely into half-open fists that produce loud dramatic smacks, but leave behind little more than red marks that won’t even bruise tomorrow. It's a good show and Bruce finds himself enjoying the masterful exchange until Jay fails to telegraph a right hook and accidentally sends the smaller fighter sprawling into the dirt. Bruce’s fists clench, one rising up to grab hold the partition post. Scenting blood, the horde’s braying jeers grow hungry and the atmosphere changes palpably.

“Come on, get up,” Bruce murmurs under his breath, “ _Get up_.”

Jay looks at the downed man and hesitates. His eyes dart again to the group of well-dressed men. Bruce wonders which one he’s looking to. Are they a coach? A sponsor? Someone he owes money? He studies the men and is less surprised than he should be to recognize one of them. Carmine Falcone’s youngest son Alberto is there. Alberto is relatively harmless, but the man next to him pricks at Bruce’s senses. He’s of average height with slicked-back hair and his suit is cut loosely in the current fashion, making his build indeterminable. Dark eyes reflect the glow of a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. Bruce has the disconcerting feeling he’s seen him before, but can’t remember when or where.

His eyes are torn away from the mysterious man when the smaller fighter finally scrambles back up to his feet to continue the bout. There’s no bell, no breaks between rounds, and as the fight draws into the evening it metamorphoses into a battle of perseverance. The sky turns into the dull violet hue of early dusk and exhaustion takes its toll on both men. Sweat rolls down Jay’s face and body. He has to keep wiping it out of his eyes and his rival uses those brief moments to mercilessly push him into the corner. When he goes down, it’s not even from a hit. He’s lured left by a feint and tries to correct course but overcompensates when he twists right and trips over his own feet. He hits the ground hard.

The crowd around Bruce rages. Curses rain down on the fallen fighter. A man standing next to him screams, “Get the fuck up, Todd! You worthless piece of shit! If you can’t take down a stupid fairy fuck like him then what in the goddamn hell are you good for!” in rage. Bruce’s fingers dig into the post, the soft rotting wood caves under his nails.

Doggedly, Jay tries to get to his feet, but he only makes it hands and knees before his arms tremble and collapse out from under him. A thin man with the look a referee slinks under the ropes on his belly and lies next to Jay, shouting a three-count in his face. The smaller fighter raises his arms in triumph as Jay pants into the dust, eyes screwed shut. The crowd is cheerless at upset, eyeing the underdog with suspicion and distaste. No one comes to congratulate him. Indifferent to their animosity he grins and extends a hand to his opponent. Jay eyes it wearily, but accepts, letting the smaller fighter help haul him to his feet.

“Hey man, good fight! You are one strong son of a bitch!” the victor gushes, slapping him on the back.

Jay huffs. “And you’re the fastest little asshole I’ve ever met,” he concedes with somewhat less enthusiasm.

“Yeah, well, it was an honor sharing the ring with you.” He beams at Jay, all bright teeth and genuine good humor.

Jay stares, baffled by the effusive praise. His lips pull back into something between a smile and a grimace. Bruce decides to spare him, clearing his throat pointedly and rapping his knuckles on the top of the post. The smaller fighter whirls around.

“Shit,” he hisses.

“Indeed,” Bruce replies evenly. “Hello, Dick.”

He watches his ward’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Bruce, I—”

“Will explain in the car,” Bruce finishes for him

Dick’s eyes flash in anger. “Hey! Believe it or not, I’m an adult. You can’t boss me around like that anymore.”

He purses his lips, trying not to grind his teeth in agitation, mindful of his dentist’s many warnings.

“You’re right. I can’t.” He ignores Dick’s shock and barrels on, “But what will Alfred say when he hears you were in Gotham and didn’t come home for dinner? What about Damian?”

“Low blow,” Dick grumbles, shoulders sagging in shame. He glances around the emptying dockyard. “Where’s Barry?”

“Parked on Bay Street. Where’s your shirt?”

Dick fishes through his trouser pockets and tosses a coin to a red-headed boy sitting on a stack of nearby crates who hands him a bundle of fabric in return. “Thanks, Colin,” Dick grins and starts dressing. Bruce waits until he shrugs on his jacket before pivoting and heading towards the car. Idly he scans the dissipating remnants of the crowd, looking for a head of dark curls above the rest. Jay must have slipped away while he was scolding Dick. He is surprised at his own disappointment, he would have liked to offer some parting encouragement; despite his slight stature Dick is a formidable fighter. There was no way Jay could have known his opponent had been trained in various martial arts from early childhood.

Bruce’s peers had criticized his insistence that his ward be proficient in self-defense, declaring it paranoia and the onset of eccentricity. Then Bobby Franks, the son of a wealthy Chicagoan had been kidnapped and murdered in what the papers called the _“Crime of the Century,”_ and suddenly the idea didn't seem so crazy. Bobby had been the same age as Dick. Dick’s young acrobatic body had taken to the martial arts like a bird to flight. Jay had done remarkably well against him all things considered.

Dick’s footsteps catch up to him as he rounds the corner the Cadillac is parked on. He lets out a low whistle at the sight of the sleek red and black body. “Gee willikers, Bruce! When did you get this?”

“Last year. Fresh off the line. Sixteen cylinders,” Bruce boasts a little, biting back a grin at the way Dick’s eyes bug out of his head.

“ _Sixteen_ cylinders?”

“And a convertible to boot!” Barry yells, as he gets out to open their doors for them. “It’s good to see you kid!”

Dick bounces forward and wraps his arms around the genial chauffeur. “Good to see you too, Barry. It’s been a while,” he says smiling, as if it’s not his own fault that it has been so long.

Barry pulls back and points to Dick’s swelling jaw. “That’s a big bruise there, buddy. But your smile is bigger, I take it you won that tango?”

Bruce glares at him. Dick’s reckless behavior doesn’t need further encouragement. He steps into the car and waits for his ward to settle next to him on the leather seat. Dick perches awkwardly at the far end and fidgets. HIs eyes avoid Bruce’s, raking over every detail of the car’s interior with exaggerated interest. They make it ten minutes before Dick breaks. He’s never done well with silence.

“I’m here for work,” he blurts out.

“Since when do Bludhaven police officers have jurisdiction in Gotham?” Bruce asks impassively.

Dick winces and looks out the window.

“ _Dick_ ,” he growls.

“I uh, I’m not with the police anymore.”

“Oh?” 

Bruce is not unhappy to hear this. He had hoped his ward might one day take over Wayne Enterprises. Dick had never expressed a particular interest or aptitude for business, but things change as people mature and Bruce had held onto that hope. It had hurt when Dick instead announced his intention to leave the manor and live off of a civil servants salary. He had perhaps been less than kind in letting Dick know how naive and foolish he thought his ward was being. 

“I couldn’t… There’s just…” Dick takes a breath and tries again, “Bludhaven is too corrupt. I couldn’t keep looking the other way, keeping my mouth shut. I couldn’t be the person they told me to be.”

_I told you so_ , Bruce thinks uncharitably. He refrains from saying it aloud.

“If you’ve left the Bludhaven police, then what is this work that brings you to Gotham? To an illegal bare knuckles boxing match?”

Dick drums his fingers on his thigh. “Do you remember little Timothy Drake?”

“From the Drake’s next door? Of course. He’s an intelligent boy. Last year he sold Drake Industries to WE and then the estate. Made a pretty penny off it all; enough to live off of quite comfortably for the rest of his life, though I’m not sure what he’s been up to since then.” 

Dick finally turns to face him, blue eyes sparking with restrained excitement. “He’s opened up a private investigation agency.”

Bruce feels the muscles of his go slack as his brain stalls out. He swallows and replays them in his head to make sure he heard them right. Private investigation agency. His ward, his son in everything but on paper, Dick Grayson wants to play at being Dick Tracy. Of course Dick would find a comic strip hero a perfectly acceptable inspiration for a real life career. 

“And. How did you hear about this… opportunity?” he forces out from a jaw locked with strain.

“Through Babs actually." Dick shrugs and shoots him small smile. "She and Tim know each other. She says Tim’s one of the smartest people she’s ever met. And you know coming from her that’s high praise. Anyway, she told me they were opening up a detective agency and could use a third partner. She and Tim have the business and research side of things covered but need someone to help with field work."

There’s so much Bruce could unpack from that statement. Not the least of which is that Dick, who wouldn’t return to Gotham for the sake of his own family, was apparently happy to come running back at the bidding of his redheaded ex-girlfriend. Or that he’s been back in the city for days without telling anyone. Bruce folds his arms across his chest and tries to ignore the dull ache to the left of his breast bone. 

“So today’s pugilistic affair was part of an investigation then?” 

“Oh! Um. Yes,” Dick eagerly jumps into describing the case. “Ever since the repeal a lot of the bootleggers have lost their footholds in Gotham. But a few have adapted, switching from hooch to narcotics. Tim’s noticed an uptick in heroin fatalities which Gotham’s boys in blue haven't bothered to investigate. We think we know which group is responsible and where they're recruiting from.”

Dread pools in his gut. This is exactly why he hadn't wanted Dick joining the Bludhaven, or any other, police department. He doesn't need another family member gunned down in an alley. For the last year his nightmares have been filled with visions of a third headstone in the Wayne family funeral lot. Now Dick was throwing himself head first into something even more dangerous. 

“Let me guess, they're recruiting the fighters from these unofficial fighting clubs." Bruce feels a migraine coming on, a sharp stabbing pain through his right eye. "And you’re hoping if you make a big enough splash on the scene you’ll be approached.”

Dick shrinks under Bruce's cold demeanor. “That was... the plan. But even if I don't get recruited, at the very least it will put me in a position to hear things from the other fighters. Hopefully enough to get us some leads.” He trails off and silence once again descends on the car. They’ve cleared the city and are winding through the verdant estates of Bristol when Dick speaks again, “You think I’m being an idiot, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. But you’re thinking it.”

Bruce chooses not to answer and Dick laughs mirthlessly, “Here goes Dick being hot headed and naive again, right? Reckless and stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

Dick sets his chin in his palm and stares out the window. “No. You just think what I choose to do with my life is stupid.”

Bruce breathes out a sigh. The manor is on the horizon. His head hurts.

“Let’s just… get through dinner civilly, please? Damian will be excited to see you.”

The boy doesn’t run to greet them when Barry pulls the car up, he’d spent too many of his formative years with his mother to indulge in such displays of affection, but he does allow Bruce to plant a kiss on the top of his head. He even tolerates it when Dick sweeps him up into a hug. 

“Hey Little D! How are you doing? I've missed you so much!” Dick crows and ruffles his hair.

This affront is more than Damian's tolerance will forebear however. His face immediately scrunches in vexation and he attempts to push Dick away, pummeling at his chest.

“Unhand me, Richard!”

One side of Bruce’s mouth tugs up at the scene. He's missed watching his boys together. A light hand on his shoulder announces Alfred’s presence and he knows the elderly steward feels the same. Dick drops Damian to embrace his honorary grandfather.

“Hey Alf,” he smiles.

“Master Di—Good heavens!” Alfred gasps in horror, abruptly vacillating from joy at Dick’s arrival to consternation. “Master Dick, whatever has happened to your face?”

Dick’s hand drifts up to his swelling jaw and cheek. “Oh! Uh. It was an… accident?”

Alfred arches a scathingly unimpressed eyebrow. “Master Dick, I have known you for seventeen years. Do not do me the disservice that believing one year away has been enough for me to not recognize when you are fibbing.”

“Yes, he _accidentally_ got hit in a bare-knuckles boxing match he entered himself into,” Bruce drawls smugly. 

Dick scowls at Bruce over Alfred’s shoulder.

“Did you really?” Damian pipes up, his interest piqued. “Did you win?”

Bruce bites back a groan. They’re still trying to socialize Damian to overcome his questionable upbringing by the Al Ghuls, he doesn’t need Dick setting a bad example on top of things. 

“Yeah, I did,” Dick switches his scowl for a grin faster than a Walter Johnson pitch.

Damian sniffs, “Of course you did. No common rabble could best you.”

“You really must be more careful, Master Dick,” Alfred admonishes. “Dinner is ready but let’s see to that bruise first and then you may take a shower before sitting down at the table.”

“Oh no, Alfred, it’s okay. Really I—”

Bruce misses the rest as his eldest is dragged off in the direction of the kitchen. He shares a smirk with a snickering Damian, but the smile slides off his son’s face all too soon.

“Is he staying, Father?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce answers honestly. “Maybe not here. But I think in Gotham for a while.”

When they sit down to dinner half an hour later, Dick's hair is damp and he has a cut of raw beef held to his face. Bruce tries to keep his amusement reined in at the young man’s humiliation. The misery in Dick's eyes lifts at the spread of food Alfred sets before them. He rips into a roll, putting the beef slab down to butter it up.

“Thank you, Alfred! I’ve got to say, I can’t think of anything I’ve missed more aside from yourself and Little D than your cooking!”

Alfred smiles benevolently at the compliment. “Why thank you, Master Dick. It is good to be remembered and held in such high regard. Though I wish you would have informed me you would be joining us for dinner tonight. I could have made your favorite, _selska tava_.”

“Well, I didn’t know I’d be coming. I was working and…” he narrows his eyes at Bruce. “How did you know where I was?”

“I have my sources,” Bruce returns cryptically.

It was the dockmaster. Bruce knows him well enough from WE business that the man had felt obligated to call when he thought he recognized his grown ward about to be pummeled into a grease stain. A man shouldn’t have to give up all his secrets though, so he says nothing and lets Dick fume.

“You know what, I don’t care. Just don’t do it again.”

Bruce grunts and forces down a mouthful of potatoes. That is not a promise he is making. He clears his throat and steers the conversation elsewhere.

“So. Where will you be staying now that you’ve returned to Gotham?”

“You’re coming back to Gotham, Master Dick?” Alfred interjects uncharacteristically. The old man generally pretends not to hear what's discussed by the family while waiting on them, but the tempting possibility of Dick's return must exceed his ability to ignore. “Why, you must stay here of course. Your room has been kept in order. I’ll only need Miss Brown to dust and put out new linens.”

Dick cringes in his seat. “Well, you see, Alf… I’ve already found a place to stay. The office I work in… The owner, you remember Tim Drake? He also owns tenements above. He lives in one and he offered to let me stay in the other for a reduced rate. He and Babs helped me move in day before yesterday.”

As upset as he is at Dick, he can’t help but wince in sympathy at the stony mask Alfred’s face hardens into. The steward doesn’t speak again. The rest of the meal is dedicated to Damian's discussion of his day at school. At the end, Alfred collects their plates and removes the leftovers. He returns with a single crystal dessert dish, which he sets in front of Damian, before stalking back to the kitchen pointedly whispering, “ _Reduced rate? Really!”_ loudly under his breath before the door swings closed behind him.

Dick looks despondently at the paneled wood before turning longingly to the bowl of chocolate mousse. He leans tentatively over the table.

“Do you think I could… Just one bite?”

“Absolutely not!” Damian growls and curls an arm protectively around his dessert. “If you want dessert maybe you should ask _Tim Drake_ for some, since you prefer living with him to us now.”

“Dami! That’s not true, I—” he swallows the remainder of the sentence when Damian abandons the table, taking the mousse with him.

Bruce sighs. He’ll have to hunt his youngest down later and do his best to soothe the ruffled feathers and hurt feelings, but he should take advantage while Dick is actually here.

“Well, I guess it’s down to you and me,” he jokes self-deprecatingly.

Dick stands and slides his chair back in place.

Bruce stares at him askance. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Goodnight Bruce. Thanks for dinner. I’ll get Barry to take me home,” he replies tersely and strides out, leaving Bruce alone at the head of an empty oversized table.

  
  
***  
  
  


A week later as he’s walking through the gardens, he overhears some of the landscapers chatting on the other side of the hedge. He pauses and leans lightly into an old boxwood to hear better. He’s going to miss the hedges, he thinks nostalgically. They were great fun to sneak through as a child and spy on the inebriated patrons of his parent’s parties. As an adult, he’d engaged in more than a few of his own clandestine affairs in the shelter of a niche hidden in the hedgerow. But Alfred was quite determined to see them gone; claiming that their neat geometric symmetry was démodé and naturalistic is the new vogue for gardens. 

He instantly identifies one of the voices by its atrocious accent as belonging to Guy Gardner, the cocksure redheaded laborer of the grounds crew Alfred had hired for the project. The moment the man opened his mouth to introduce himself - _Gardner, geddit? Guy Gardner and I'mma gardener_ \- he had been tempted to immediately dismiss the whole crew and find another contractor. He didn't like their foreman, that floppy-haired buffoon from California either. But Alfred had been infatuated with the inventive layout their young designer had submitted, and he's never been able to tell the old man 'no.'

“Hey, I’m just sayin',” Gardner brags, “that I coulda KO’ed that kid in three minutes.” 

“In your dreams,” a rich female voice snorts derisively.

Seeing a woman in the crew had been a surprise, but Bruce liked to think of himself as being fairly modern and progressive. His mother had been an ardent supporter of the suffrage movement. He wished she had lived to see the passing of the 19th Amendment. Any concern he may have had at the woman’s ability to keep up with the hard labor of the project had been swiftly dismissed the instant she hoisted a bag of lime up on her shoulder without so much as a grunt. 

“What? Look—lookit these guns! You don’t think they could handle some snot-nose kid, Cruz? That what you’re sayin’?” Gardner makes an offended noise. “Come on, Cruz. They call him _Baby Face_. Wouldn’t you rather have a real man? ‘Sides, heard he lost his last fight.”

“You’ve got manure between your ears, Gardner,” Cruz sighs. “ _Dios me libre de este idiota_.”

There’s the shuffle of someone packing up tools and moving away.

“No reason to be like that! Hey, Cruz, tell you what—Thursday! Thursday night your boy’s in the ring again. Say I pick you up at five, we head out for a romantic evening in the warehouse district and we can watch Baby Face get clobbered again together?”

Cruz doesn't reply. Gardner grumbles and gives chase. Bruce stands behind the bush, thinking in the sudden quiet. When he was young he often dabbled in the world beyond the circumscription of polite society. As a handsome bachelor of great fortune, some scandal was expected if not outright encouraged. He’d traveled the world; smoking in opium dens and bedding starlets. He’d sipped contraband with rum runners in the city’s most notorious speakeasies and even skipped into one or two pansy-parlors. Of course that had all been before the crash. Gotham had been different then, had been brighter somehow _._

He huffs in quiet laughter, remembering the alter ego he’d donned for some of the less-savory adventures of his misbegotten youth: Matches Malone. He hasn’t thought of Matches in a long time, having laid the alias to rest years ago in an effort to be a better steward of his parent’s company and a better father to his son. He didn’t want to repeat the mistakes he’d made raising Dick with Damian. Still…

Dick wasn’t the only one who yearned for some excitement in life. Would it really be so terrible to go out and enjoy one night of subversive amusement? If he's lucky he might catch sight of his wayward ward there. He wouldn’t even need to use a fake mustache, he’s quite capable of growing his own now. 

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> History notes!
> 
> 1) Bobby Franks was murdered in 1924 by Leopold & Loeb, two students at the University of Chicago. Devotees of Nietzsche they considered themselves übermenschen, believed their superior intellects would enable them to get away a 'perfect crime.'  
> 2) Zoot suits were displays of wealth - the loose cut required more fabric which contrasted against the scarcity of the great depression  
> 3) Showers were just starting to become common in the 1930s, so it would not be unlikely for an upper-class home like the Waynes to have them  
> 4) Walter Johnson was the fastest pitcher of the Babe Ruth era of baseball  
> 5) 'Guns' first recorded use as slang for arms was in a 1929 New York Times article on baseball  
> 6) Pansy parlors were night clubs and cabarets that catered to the lgbtq community in the 1920s-early 1930s, but by the mid 1930s rising conservatism likely borne from the anxiety and pressures of the depression led to the demonization of anyone seen as a sexual deviant and resulted in social and legal crackdowns (often violent) against the lgbtq community and outlawing establishments like these, for more info I highly recommend this article: https://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/November-2005/The-Gay-30S/


End file.
